“That little fellow.”
“The one who is singing?”
“Yes.”
Marius made a movement.
“Oh! don’t go away,” said she, “it will not be long now.”
She was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low and broken by hiccoughs.
At intervals, the death rattle interrupted her. She put her face as near that of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression:—
“Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it. I did not want to have it reach you. But perhaps you will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently? Take your letter.”
She grasped Marius’ hand convulsively with her pierced hand, but she no longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius’ hand in the pocket of her blouse. There, in fact, Marius felt a paper.
“Take it,” said she.